


a curve is a straight line broken at all its points

by gloss



Category: Star Wars RPF
Genre: Banter, Blow Jobs, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, M/M, Neither Fluff nor Angst, Porn with Feelings, Yuleporn, copious drug and alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 23:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8944480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: Relationships are for the downtime, for home, for when you're not working (but always thinking about working, hoping it'll be sooner not later).
  
  This, whatever this is, is what they can grab in transit.
A road trip, and scenes from what's definitely not a relationship.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaydel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaydel/gifts).



> Title from Kaveh Akbar, [Milk](https://twitter.com/KavehAkbar/status/811569154281111552).

Oscar's gaze flickers over to the rearview mirror, then back to the road. "You should choke me later. Really make me feel it."

Domhnall is folded up like failed origami in the passenger seat, one earbud in, his head tipped against the window and cradled by the seat belt. He guffaws, then catches himself. "Yeah, sure, I'll be sure to do that."

The headlights plow into the dark, make a bright tunnel speckled with rain that the car plunges into, ever-onward.

"I'm serious."

"Of course you are. You always are."

"I am."

"Oscar Isaac Hernández, notoriously serious man, nary a trace of humor. Everyone knows that."

"But I am."

Domhnall pats Oscar's thigh. "Of course. I'd never doubt that, or you."

Oscar's lip curls slightly, lifting up. The light is strange in here, picking out odd angles and strange planes of his face. His beard is all texture, a few curves limned by the ambient light. "Fine, whatever, fuck you."

"Baby," Domhnall says, lowering his voice into a sweet little coo, "you know I couldn't handle...this. You."

He grabs for Oscar's crotch, laughing, then laughing harder when Oscar thrusts up into the touch. His mouth is open, his eyes on the road, his dick half-hard.

"Oh, shit," Domhnall says. He can't let go.

"Yeah," Oscar says and hits the gas, narrowing the tunnel, making the rain streak faster past.

*

One night they spoke Irish and Spanish at each other for well over an hour. Neither has any idea what the other was saying, but it worked out fine. Plus, it was hilarious.

They were in Norway, finishing up principal photography. Oscar was scary-jacked up, like a huge lump of fjord rock, if there were lichen as deliriously thick and overwhelming as that beard. Next to him, Domhnall felt every bit the skinny normie he was supposed to be playing.

Until Oscar wrestled him against a wall in the hotel hallway, using all his bulk and lower center of gravity, and said, in English, "Fuck me."

His mouth was a red, wet streak in the midst of all that hair; Domhnall couldn't look away. It was obscene, but not quite as obscene as what Oscar was telling him to do.

"Whoa, whoa, man, we're..." Domhnall got Oscar by the elbows and backed his way to the door to his room. They'd made out a couple times, nothing major, but this felt heavy. "What's that?"

Oscar just shook his head and pulled away. He stalked down the hall, waving his hand behind him when Domhnall tried to call him back.

So that was strange.

*

Their schedules at Pinewood didn't overlap very much for _Star Wars_ : "life of the character actor," Domhnall liked to say, "here, there, everywhere, but never for very long." He was fairly sure it was something he'd heard from his father.

Oscar texted him one Thursday morning, curt as ever: **you around?**

_yo what up mah hooooomes?_

**bored** , Oscar replied, not even taking the bait of Domhnall's excellent urban lingo. **come by.**

He found Oscar a little gray-faced, restless. He let Domhnall in to the swank hotel suite, gestured vaguely at the bong on the coffee table, and turned up the volume on the music. It was a little jazzy, then spiked by electric guitar, only next to resolve out into a woman's honey-smooth voice.

"It's like the inside of your head when you're really, really sad," Domhnall said eventually. "What's this called?"

Oscar didn't reply. He was pacing from one window to the other, face locked in a scowl. He looked a lot younger than he had on _Ex Machina_. That must have been due to the smooth cheeks and loosened curls.

"You look good, man, retro space styling suits you," Domhnall tried. "Me, they've got me like a living skeleton." He curled the fingers of both hands and clawed at the air like Nosferatu. "Buzzed my hair every day lest it start looking remotely human."

The music petered out, but Oscar kept moving. 

"Man, sit down, you're fucking making me _dizzy_ , the fuck are you doing?" Domhnall lay flat on his back across the wide hotel bed while Oscar paced antsily. 

"Thinking," Oscar replied curtly. His arms were crossed over his chest, his shirt-hems flapped in his wake.

"For the majority of humanity, THC is a depressant, you know that, right? Makes us loose and happy and slow. Silly."

"Uh-huh."

"Not for you, I gather?"

Oscar reached the window, spun on his heel, and paced back. He sat on the coffee table and sucked in a deep hit from the bong. Voice pinched high, he said, "What's that?"

Domhnall considered repeating himself, but the task struck him as absurdly arduous. "You're a strange one," he said instead.

"Heard that," Oscar said, before flinging himself on the bed so he lay perpendicular to Domhnall. His head thumped against Domhnall's arm, so Domhnall wiggled it free ad tugged at Oscar's shoulder until his head was pillowed against Domhnall's ribs. Oscar rolled his head back and forth, getting comfortable. "You're fucking bony, you know that?"

"I just said that!" Domhnall had folded his arm across Oscar's chest and he plucked out a random rhythm on Oscar's shirt to accompany the happy weed-bebop in his head. he put on his best granny voice. "Eat up, there won't be any later for lollygaggers."

"Lollygaggers," Oscar said and giggled. Actually, literally, _giggled_.

"There he is! Nice Oscar, happy Oscar!"

Oscar scowled, the expression elaborate and sustained. He was still giggling, however. "Stoned Oscar." 

"Stoned Oscar, he's back!" Domhnall struggled to roll on his side, but somehow use his arm to pull Oscar up to meet him. It didn't work; the maneuver ended with Domhnall on his face and Oscar trapped under his torso.

"Christ, man, _flirt_ with me first," Oscar said, pushing Domhnall off. "Lube me up, make me want it. Don't just fall on me. _Fuck_."

"I got excited," Domhnall admitted, finally making it onto his side. "Sorry. I was going to kiss you."

"Sure you were," Oscar said. "Was that before or after you were going to smother me? Oh, my god, Gleeson, are you a necrophile? Is _that_ your deep dark secret?"

"Keep telling you, I _don't_ have any deep dark secrets. I'm just me. I'm --"

"Everyone has deep dark secrets and confounding shame and personal fuck-ups that haunt them for all of their days," Oscar told him.

"Not me," Domhnall said. 

"Not I, said the fly." Oscar's Irish accent still needed a lot of work, but it was coming along. "Your denial tells me everything I need to know."

"I'm not --" Domhnall stopped, suddenly awestruck by the intellectual beauty -- grandiose yet also grotesque, like the architecture in Barcelona -- of denying denial. He giggled now, delighted. "Ha, cool."

Oscar regarded him calmly. When he wasn't trying to be actively charming, he would get the strangest, most considering look in his eyes. It might have been unsettling, if Domhnall were the kind of person to get unsettled by his friends. He wasn't, since he rarely befriended unsettling people.

Then again, there was Oscar.

"Anyone home?" Oscar asked eventually. He stretched and smiled, sleepy and slow as a cat in the sun. "Earth to the corpse-fucker."

"Sagrada familia! Holy family," Domhnall said, at last remembering the name of the freaky nightmare cathedral.

"Christ, you're not having some Catholic-guilt fit are you? What do I do, put a wallet in your mouth? Apply extreme unguents?"

"Unction, mate."

"The fuck is unctionmate?"

He did kiss Oscar then, because the conversation had long since left the rails, and he was very thoroughly stoned, and he was so close he could see the incredibly delicate spray of beard shadow just under Oscar's skin, as well as his red lips and white teeth.

Domhnall's a simple guy. He's never pretended otherwise and he was sure that Oscar had got his number within half an hour of meeting him.

Some people, however. Some people liked things complicated. Some people could not seem to function without a fuckton of contradictions and challenges buffeting them in every direction.

Some of those people were, further, fairly irresistible, often in direct proportion to how goddamn exasperating they were.

Some people kissed exceptionally hard and made low, throaty grunts that leapt from their mouths right to your dick and base of your spine, so by the time you broke for breath, you were not only gasping but getting hard and twitchy like you were fifteen again.

Some people, good Lord.

*

It's never meant very much at all. That's for the best. 

Relationships are for the downtime, for home, for when you're not working (but always thinking about working, hoping it'll be sooner not later).

This, whatever this is, is what they can grab in transit. _In media res_ , Oscar said once, pronouncing it like it was Spanish slang, a rapid little verbal fillip that Domhnall didn't recognize the phrase until later. As they pass, bump into each other, kiss-kiss the cheek and hug like dudes, that's what this is.

They see each other at parties, in hotel rooms, places and events that are temporary. As transient as they are.

There's no claim, no obligation, certainly no commitment. 

For the best, really.

*

They were punch-drunk from doing _Ex Machina_ press and watching a musical on cable. One of those old studio ones, where the colors are just slightly this side of nauseating but the dancing is fantastic and the songs bright and cheery, no matter the subject.

Audrey Hepburn yelled at Fred Astaire, who was mugging -- as Oscar said -- like a mofo, then jumped up and started dancing like she was a robot breaking down.

Domhnall was barefoot, in jeans slipping off his hips (he'd lost a couple pounds on this tour already), and decided to give the dance a try.

Oscar, reclining on the hotel bed on one elbow, started laughing helplessly, so hard that it turned into crying when Domhnall managed to smack himself in the face with his own elbow.

"Fuck off, it _hurts_!" Domhnall sank down to his knees, holding his nose to keep the worst of the pain away. Tears stung his eyes.

"Your country may have given the world drinking and excellent poetry and early anti-colonialism," Oscar told him, standing over him now, helping him up and guiding him back to a chair. "But Ireland cannot dance. Not for shit."

Domhnall opened his mouth to protest, but the pain in his nose increased and he couldn't think of a retort.

"Any place that proudly exports Michael Flatley should be sent to the Hague," Oscar continued, as if Domhnall _had_ argued. "I'm sorry, that's just the way it is."

"You're not sorry."

Oscar had his hands on his hips and a wide smirk on his face. His beard had yet to reach the terrifying proportions it had gained for filming, but it was still full and thick, very impressive.

"I'm not, no," he admitted. "Except insofar as 'I'm sorry' can also mean 'I pity you intensely', then, yes, I'm incredibly sorry."

"Arsehole," Domhnall muttered and gingerly touched his nose. It felt sore, to be sure, but not broken. "If this is broken, I'm gonna end up with a nose as big as yours."

"Watch it," Oscar said, and handed him ice from the mini-bar wrapped in a pair of boxer briefs. "No badmouthing the schnozz."

"It's huge, man! It's not badmouthing to state objective facts."

Shaking his head, clucking his tongue, Oscar perched on a corner of the desk. (Why do hotel rooms always have desks? Is there some use for them that neither Domhnall nor Oscar had ever been able to discern?) 

"Keep this up and I'm not going to dance for you." Oscar crossed his arms.

"Oh, ho!" Domhnall shouted, "Not that! Any punishment but _that_! Not watch you show off yet again, like you do at the drop of a fecking hat! Whatever will I do without my twice-daily required viewing of 'Oscar shakes his booty for all and sundry'?"

It was important to keep things light. Bickering, shoving at each other, stay in motion verbally, emotionally, physically. 

It's when things come down to rest, in general, that you'd need to worry. Take care, be serious, all that.

*

At the Star Wars premiere in LA, there was a party after the big party, and then one after that. This was the fourth, probably, in a cavernous ballroom somewhere draped with fairy lights. 

"Hands up," Domhnall said from behind Oscar, jabbing two fingers against the small of Oscar's back. "I'm going to need to take a look at those canapés, citizen."

"Are you doing John Wayne?" Oscar asked without moving. It looked like he was talking to the cater-waiter from whom he'd just liberated the tray of expensive snacks.

"Ugh, no, he's old and dead and also probably some sort of fascist," Domhnall said. He could see just about perfectly over Oscar's head. What a small, cranky little man he was. "Toss us one of those sausages --"

"Snausages, snausages," Oscar said in a strange flat whine, more to himself than anyone within hearing range. "How are you, anyway?"

"Better now that I found my little buddy," Domhnall said. His hand had pushed up between the vents on Oscar's suit jacket and he'd now hooked all four fingers over the waistband of Oscar's pants. He tugged, not all that hard, and Oscar moved gracefully backward without dropping a single canapé. 

"Little?" He was pressed up against Domhnall's front now, still looking ahead, still addressing the empty air. "Aw, you found your dick? That's so sweet."

"Excuse me," Domhnall said, far too loudly, and then continued because he was drunk and who cared, "excuse me, the Gleeson men are _very_ well-endowed. Generously so. Nothing little about us, no, sir, except perhaps our..."

Oscar pressed back against him. "Your what?"

"Your hair smells good," Domhnall told him. Under the party lights, below the calculus-level complications of curls, Oscar's scalp was almost heartbreakingly pale, as pale as Domhnall's own belly. "What is that?"

Oscar tipped his head back, and looked up. His nose was huge like this, his eyelashes very long. "Shampoo," he said, "it's great stuff, really cleans you up."

Domhnall shoved him. Oscar still didn't drop the tray. "I use shampoo, man."

"Really? Might want to consult a professional, you're looking a little lank."

Despite himself, Domhnall ran one hand through his hair; Oscar caught that and smirked. "Fuck you, man, this is, like. _Tousled_. Carefree."

"Soap-free, maybe," Oscar muttered. He squinted and leaned in for a closer look. "Yeah, lank and greasy as hell. Fire your stylist, dude. Yesterday."

"I don't have a..." He stopped when he noticed just how wide Oscar's smirk had grown.

"Everyone has a stylist," Oscar said. Then he nodded, apparently to himself, as if confirming something. "Whether you know it or not, you've got a stylist."

"What the hell are you on about?"

Oscar blinked a little and smiled vaguely. "I'm drunk, did I mention that?"

He _was_ flushed, now that Domhnall was looking directly at him. A few ringlets clung to the sweat beading his hairline.

Domhnall clapped Oscar on the shoulder. "So am I!"

Oscar's smile widened and widened until his eyes were nearly closed, crinkles fanning out from the edges. He ducked his head again, nodding, confirming. "Oh, cool. Cool."

"What say we find somewhere quieter and have ourselves a, how do you say? Ménage à trois? You know, a threesome."

Oscar looked around, as if he'd forgotten they had company, which they didn't. Still, he slid slightly closer. Voice low and rough, he asked, "Yeah? You up for something like that?"

"Indeed I am. I am very up but also exceedingly _down_ for that. For what you might call a..." Domhnall stole an hors d'oeuvre from the tray and popped it into his mouth. Chewing, he continued, "canapé à trois? Hmmm?"

Oscar's grin was sudden, blinding, genuine. "Fuck you, dude, that's _terrible_. Well done."

"Yes, all right," Domhnall said, draping one arm around Oscar's broad shoulders. He kissed Oscar's temple with an open mouth "We'll negotiate that. Over snacks."

He grabbed a pitcher of champagne punch as they wavered and shuffled their way along the edge of the room until they found an exit, a dark anteroom with a low, wide couch.

"This," Domhnall announced, before pausing to drink from the pitcher of punch, "is the life. A life. One kind of life. A very grand and enticing sort of life, wouldn't you say?"

Oscar reclined against the arm of the couch, his head tipped back so that when he spoke, all Domhnall could make out was the jut of his chin and long, ropy muscles in his throat. 

"Sorry, what was that?" 

Oscar sat up and pushed the hair off his forehead. "I agreed that this is probably a life. Some sort of existence."

Rolling his eyes, Domhnall passed over the pitcher. "Drink up, or --" He grabbed it back and hugged it against his chest. "Maybe don't. You're turning gloomy."

"I'm not _turning_ anything." Oscar sat further forward, so Domhnall twisted out of reach. But Oscar was simply shifting, pulling one knee up to his chest, then loosening his tie and collar. "You're wearing the fuck out of that suit, by the way."

Domhnall barked with laughter. "It's so tight! I fear for future Gleesons, crushed before they ever get a chance by this damn thing."

Oscar grinned, the gloom vanishing, overtaken by charm. "Let's get you loosened up, huh?"

Domhnall still hadn't released the pitcher. He took another long draught, choked a little, but kept it down. "Sounds good to me, any ideas, what do you think?"

"Don't think, _do_." Oscar's voice was rougher suddenly, and the couch creaked a bit as he rose up on one knee and swung the other leg over Domhnall's lap. And then there he was, his smile a little lopsided, his face damp with sweat and eyes darkly hooded. He reached between, cupping Domhnall. "Hi."

"'ello," Domhnall whispered. He couldn't have accounted for why he felt so surprised; this wasn't necessarily new, far from unfamiliar, and yet he was gaping, breathless and baffled. 

Oscar wiggled, reaching behind himself, and there came the thump of one shoe, then the other, hitting the floor. "Better,' he said, replacing his hold on Domhnall. He ran his thumb up and down the zip. "Never really understood why women bitched so much about shoes until --"

"You started wearing them yourself?" Domhnall said and grinned. 

The weight and pressure of Oscar there, strange as it might have been, felt good, too. He was a square, strong little guy, raspy cheek catching on Domhnall's beard, slick tongue finding just the right angle as they kissed.

"You know something," Domhnall said at one point, when both their flies were open, pants around their hips, hands working each other fast and sticky, "I missed you, man."

He was pretty close, and drunk already, so there wasn't much sense available to inhibit him. He was stripped, emotionally, and fine with that fact.

Oscar leaned a little ways back, looking at him from under half-closed eyes. "You want me to blow you, just say so."

Domhnall's hips bucked a couple times at that. "Well, that, too, if you're offering."

Oscar squeezed his legs around Domhnall's thigh. "Am I?"

"Fuck, are you?" Domhnall had one hand on Oscar's ass, fingertips digging into fabric and muscle, palm curved over bare skin. "Please say yes."

"Yeah," Oscar said, "yeah, okay. So long as you drop all that bullshit."

He was already lifting himself up and off, then settling on the floor between Domhnall's legs. Domhnall bent over, wrapping Oscar's tie around his fist a couple times and pulling him up to kiss him.

"What bullshit? About missing you?" Domhnall asked, not letting go. Oscar looked up at him, mouth fallen open, nostrils flaring a little.

He didn't reply, but he did try to pull back so Domhnall would tighten his hold on the tie. His gaze flicked down to Domhnall's cock, then back up, and his mouth was suddenly shining with saliva. He cocked his head infinitesimally. 

"Fuck it, never mind," Domhnall said, releasing him and lifting his hips at the same time, so he met Oscar's descending mouth like they'd practiced this. Like it was choreographed, planned.

He got one hand into Oscar's silky hair and held on, stuffing his own tie into his mouth and covering it with his other hand. One thing to be shouty and drunk, quite another to be heard fucking your costar's throat and telling him loudly just how good it felt.

Because it did, of course. Oscar's stubble brought up a pink rash that persisted on the inside of Domhnall's thighs for another day; his tongue was clever and quick, his mouth nearly depthless, and his throat like wet fire wrapped tight around Domhnall. 

And when Domhnall came, pleasure surging down his spine and jack-knifing him in half, Oscar moved with him, kept working and swallowing, and raised his eyes so that they were staring at each other. Really looking, wide-eyed and helpless, Domhnall's hips pumping and Oscar's throat filling.

*

Domhnall got to New York three days ago; he's supposed to fly back out in another three. When one interview's cancelled and another rescheduled for Skype, he has nothing to do.

In the greatest city in the world, no less. 

He's not even sure where Oscar is, if he's home or halfway around the world being intense and enthralling for a living.

One text goes ignored, but the second gets a reply immediately, with a link to Google Map to Williamsburg. 

"Let's go," Oscar says when Domhnall gets out of the Uber. He has his guitar case in one hand, a small duffel bag in the other. "You drive?" Before Domhnall can answer, Oscar shakes his head and tosses the duffel bag at him. "Never mind, you'd be on the wrong side and confused and start panicking and then we'd die."

"I don't want to die," Domhnall says. 

"Good," Oscar replies. He waves the Uber guy off and heads down the block. Domhnall follows. "What a way to go out, though, huh?" He traces the headline like it's a marquee ahead of them. "Second-string white ethnic actors die in fiery tragedy. Buzzfeed's gifs would be, quote-unquote, epic lol."

"You all right?"

"I am not," Oscar tells him, pulling up short beside a nice silver Lexus. He unlocks the back door and places his guitar gently on the seat, then takes the duffel from Domhnall and tosses it in. "But I am getting better."

"Yeah?" Domhnall asks, and maybe the question comes out slightly suspicious, because Oscar frowns at him.

"No, I'm fucking lying, what do you think?" He punches Domhnall's shoulder pretty hard and pushes off from the side of the car to pick his way around to the driver's door. He stops there, hand on the window, and says across the car's roof, "you're coming with."

"Where are we going?" Domhnall tries the passenger-side door and it opens for him.

"My friend," Oscar says, sliding inside and gesturing Domhnall to join him. "I have no fucking clue, so let's get going."

It occurs to Domhnall, as they make their way onto the Triboro bridge in the bright blue of a city dusk, that Oscar could have just picked him up in Manhattan.

"You're a navigator now?" Oscar asks as they slow approaching the toll booth. "Gimme eight bucks, you've got cash on you, right?"

Domhnall complies. "I'm just saying, you could've saved me the world's freakiest Uber out to the wilds of Brooklyn, picked me up in the comfortable mediocrity of midtown, and then set out on your cranky adventure."

"I'm not cranky," Oscar snaps.

Domhnall laughs; what else can he do? Eventually, brows drawn tight and curving together, Oscar joins him.

"You want to talk about it?" Domhnall asks a little later. They're in some place called White Plains, which is neither planar nor white.

"I do not."

"Cool, cool."

As it gets darker, Domhnall dozes a little. Oscar flips a coin, decides to go north on Route 22. There's rarely any traffic in the other direction, and nothing in their lane. They might as well be alone in the night.

Oscar swallows and says, "You should choke me later. Really make me feel it."

And so on.

*

They continue north, past a couple shitty-looking motels, and eventually Domhnall not only manages to get a signal on his phone, but he scores a hit for what looks like a nice B&B just forty miles on.

"Guess that's nothing up here," Oscar says. "Like going around the corner for you or me."

"It's so _dark_ ," Domhnall says, leaning forward to the dash to peer up at the sky. "Stars, man! Look at those stars!"

"Cosmic," Oscar says drily.

When they find the B&B at the end of a twisty road that turns to gravel, then to winter-gouged mud, it's nearly midnight. Domhnall goes to hoist the guitar case but Oscar intervenes, almost like Domhnall had tried to hit his dog or something.

The inn is a rambling white clapboard giant thing. Their room overlooks the pool steaming in the cold night air. Beyond that, there is only woods.

"Okay," Oscar says, when they've eaten club sandwiches and washed up and smoked two bowls. He kicks Domhnall in the shin to get his attention away from the truly paltry television programming. "Let's do this."

Domhnall grins and plays dumb. "You really know how to sweet-talk your lovers, you know that? Regular poet over here, be still my beating heart."

Oscar groans and covers his eyes with his hand. "Fuck it, never mind." He's on his feet, making for the four poster bed, when Domhnall tackles him from behind, pushing him down onto the mattress.

"You have to tell me why," he says, right against Oscar's ear. He grinds down against Oscar's ass.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," Domhnall says, working one hand free from around Oscar's waist and using it to tug his head back by the hair. "What's _wrong_ with you, man?"

Oscar's tongue flits over his lips. In profile, this close, he looks as tired as he is handsome. "You think there's something wrong with me? Nice."

"Fuck off," Domhnall says and releases him, pushing himself back to his feet. His hands open and close at his sides.

Oscar stays where he is, on his stomach with his head turned toward the foot of the bed. "You're hot, for some reason."

Domhnall laughs. "Thanks, that means a lot. So sweet of you."

"Let me finish. For some reason, I trust you, or --" Oscar gets both hands flat on the mattress and pushes himself up. "Fuck, dude, I just --. Why's this gotta be a whole thing?"

"It's not," Domhnall admits, "it doesn't have to be. But you ask a guy to choke you, that's next level."

Oscar shrugs and scratches at his beard. "I guess so." He doesn't sound convinced.

They look at each other, lips parted but nothing, really, to say. Oscar sighs and runs his hand through his hair, makes it stand up on one side. Domhnall's shoulders sag and he sighs, too. Sinking down onto the foot of the bed, he looks down into his lap, where his fingers are laced together. "I'm tired."

"Yeah, me, too," Oscar says softly. He's lying on his back now and after a moment, Domhnall lies down next to him.

The room's lit by a few lamps in ornate pink shades, so the posters on the bed rise into a thick, shadowy darkness. "Where _are_ we?" Domhnall asks.

"Fuck if I know," Oscar says.

More silence, gathering as close and soft as the dark around them. They end up making out sleepily, on their sides, Domhnall's hand on Oscar's ass, Oscar's hand holding their dicks together and jacking them sweet and slow.

"Let me --" Domhnall starts to say, fully prepared to take over, but then Oscar changes his grip, wriggles closer and gets his other hand on Domhnall's balls. "Never mind."

"Fu-uck," Oscar breathes, drawing the word out into several stuttering syllables. Domhnall's mouth is fastened on his neck now, his bony knee pushing between Oscar's legs. He sucks hard, bites the tendon and fucks against Oscar's cock. "Do it, come on, come for me --"

Domhnall thrusts harder, fingers digging numbingly hard against the fabric of his briefs into Oscar's crack, at once pulling him closer and grinding against him.

"That's it," Oscar mutters, smug and satisfied as Domhnall unhinges and shoots; Oscar follows a moment later, shuddering apart, his mouth sealed against Domhnall's.

* 

When Domhnall wakes the next morning, it's to a tableau so perfect it had to be planned. There's Oscar on the bench seat in the bay window, hair standing out in a chaotic halo, bent shirtless over his guitar. He's wearing old jeans, with one leg folded underneath him, the other swinging. His feet are bare, dusted with hair, the skin of his soles a tender, unseen pink.

He looks up when Domhnall sits up in bed. Pulling his knees up to his chest, Domhnall says, "Morning."

Oscar smiles and strums a few chords. "Yeah," he says, and looks over his shoulder out the window. "Looking good."


End file.
